


Fury

by charmtion



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Jon Snow's Magic Tongue, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:43:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22980067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charmtion/pseuds/charmtion
Summary: “Shh.” Lowers his head now, replaces his thumb with his tongue: lands a light lick that has her canting her hips into his belt-buckle. “Weeks? Months?”Gasp bubbles up from her throat. “Years.”“Years, hmm?” Breathes in the scent of her skin as he kisses and licks: vanilla, shea butter, little tang of lemon-zest. “Years being handled by other men. Marked up. Fucked into. Filled and used. All that time you were pretending it was me… is that right, Sansa?”Minute after midnight: Sansa rocks up to Jon’s apartment as she’s done a thousand times before. But tonight it’s different. Tonight there’s a bite on her neck. Fury in his blood. Feelings hot beneath both their collars. NSFW, naturally.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 134
Kudos: 291





	1. Bruises

**Author's Note:**

> > Pinch, punch, first day of the — HAVE SOME SMUT! 🎉  
> (it is now officially actually the _second_ day of the month in the UK but I refuse to let that little fact SPOIL my FUN ok)
> 
>   
> 
> 
> pure filth commencing in **3** … **2** … **1** … **GO**. ***** runs *****

“Who did that?”

Bruises on her arm. Little ink-dark fingerprints. Points at them, then looks into her eyes. Takes a steadying breath. Shouldn’t make him feel like this. Shouldn’t sit beneath his skin: this feeling — this _fury_ — tight-woven as the cells it is invading. Burning up.

“Jon — ”

“Who did that to you?” he asks very quietly. “Tell me, Sansa.”

“I asked him to.”

Look at each other. Her eyes are very blue. Should be cooling, their shape, their shade; but there is a heat within them. Blistering. Burning up — a pulse to match the fury singeing all the valleys of his veins. Curls his hand to a fist at his side, flexes it slowly: in, out, in —

“You asked him to leave bruises on your arm?”

Scatter of fire as she nods her head, hair falling over her shoulder. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I like it.”

Nostrils flaring slightly even as he fights to steady his breath. “You like it when a man beats you?”

“He didn’t _beat_ me. He — ”

“Sansa.”

Flare of fire in her eyes to match her hair. “Jon, he didn’t beat me.”

“What’d he do then?”

Means to make it sound monotone. But it comes out low and gruff. Churlish. Fist unfurling flat at his side now, fingers sweeping up to hook into his belt. Doesn’t miss the way those blue, blue eyes fall to map the movement. Mm, doesn’t miss the little nip of teeth to her lip as his thumb taps idly against the leather.

Rain at the windows. Rush of late-night traffic in the city streets below. Barely hears any of that. Just her breath. The way it hitches in her throat.

“Held me,” she murmurs. “Handled me.” Tips her head just slightly to the side, about enough to show another little ink-dark fingerprint curving at her throat. “I like to be handled.”

Closes his eyes, breathes to _one, two, three_. “There’s handling.” _Four_. “Then there’s hurting.” Stares at her on _five_. “Did he hurt you?”

“A little.”

Shimmer of a smile as she says it: fleeting flash of pearl before she rolls her bottom lip with her tongue. Little pink tongue. Catches it between her teeth now. Presses it wide and flat. Has to look away. _Has_ to — else he’ll start remembering visions, fantasies: late-night loneliness imagining that tongue was the hand wrapped round his cock. Wide and flat. Mm. The perfect cradle.

Takes a step toward her. “Who was he?”

“Jon — ”

Pressed back against the island in his kitchen. Her fingers gripping at the plush marble edge. Flexing. All plum-painted nails and scissoring feet in her sky-high heels. Thighs spreading minutely as she takes a shallow breath. He edges forward another half-step, gaze flickering from her black jeans to her blue, blue eyes.

“Who the fuck hurt you, Sansa?” Keeps his voice soft, low. Warning grumble before the wolves move in. “Tell me.” Softer, lower. “Name, address — ”

“No.”

Cocks his head to the side. “No?”

“I’m not going to tell you that,” she whispers. “ _Any_ of that.” Heels skittering as she tries to fight the roll starting low in her hips. “You know what’ll happen if I tell you that.”

Straightens his head. “What’ll happen, Sans?”

“You’ll go round there.” Ebbs out of her in a breathy rush. “Come back to me with bloody knuckles.” Eyes fixed on his mouth. “Bust-up lip.” 

Lets a smile hover for half a heartbeat. “Won’t be my lip that’ll be busted.”

“I don’t need a knight in shining armour, Jon.”

Makes a sound low in his throat. “That’s not me.”

“No,” she says. “It’s not.”

Pulls his thumb free of the belt. “Sansa — ”

“Every time,” she breathes. “Every time you do this.”

Rests his palm to the hard, flat plain of his belly. “Do what?”

“Pretend like you don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?”

Tears her eyes away from his mouth, flits them down his torso — wrenches them back up to his face. Rain at the windows; flickers of storm-light pulling up a snarl onto her lips. Heat here. So much heat. In her eyes. The shape of her growl. The air between them. Blue-black as the sky at the windows. Flash of neon-blue as a fire-truck blares through the street below. Same shade as her eyes. Clatter distracts him from drowning in them: one sky-high heel bumping across the tiles.

“That I like it.” Her voice is half a purr now, curling out thick and smoky. “That I ask for it.” Other shoe skating toward him as she kicks it off. “That no man lifts a finger to me unless I fucking _want_ him to.” Bumps down onto her soles, leans back against the counter. “Why do you pretend not to know that? Every fucking time, Jon.”

Drags his gaze up from her slim little ankles. “You know why.”

“Tell me.”

Meets her eyes. “Sansa…”

“Tell. Me.”

Whispers it — doesn’t make it any less of a command. Hangs heavy on the air between them. Thinks he can almost taste it. Hint of spiced rum. Tobacco peppered on her tongue. Little tang of lime. Always the same when she turns up at his apartment. Sky-high heels and a smoky smile. Painted lips — sometimes mauve, most times red. Deep, dark as the fiery hair cascading with clubland-glitter down her back.

Isn’t drunk. She’s never drunk when she rocks up here at a minute past midnight any day she fancies — just moving a little looser. Drop of drink in her veins: rum, tequila. Wine if she’s out with her friends. Whiskey sometimes, too. Bottle of Glenfiddich in hand, curve of her hip against his doorframe as he scans a look down the hallway of his apartment block, invites her inside. Just like tonight. Whiskey’s long forgotten now, though.

“Because I don’t like it,” he rumbles at last. “Seeing those bruises.” Another half-step; fingers fluttering as if he is about to touch her. “Thinking of another man putting his hands on you — whether you asked for it or not.”

Watches his fingers, then flares a look at him. “Jealous… that it?”

“Mm.”

“You want to put your hands on me, hmm?” Crosses her arms, runs her fingertips back and forth across her collarbone. “Want to mark up my skin with _your_ bruises.”

Breath tangling in his throat. “I’d never hurt you.”

“Even if I asked you to?”

“Fuck, Sansa.”

Rocks back on his heels, fingers curling back to fists at his sides. Echoes of his growl burning with the fury in his belly. Fury at the bruises on her arms. Fury at the man who left them. Fury that _he_ wants to leave marks of his own on her skin. Softer marks, to be true — kisses, nips, pink palm-print on her arse, tongue an inferno blazing heat between her hipbones — but marks all the same. Fury at himself for wanting it, for even _thinking_ it. Fury that she’s his best friend’s baby sister. Fury that she is forbidden to him — and so fucking _tempting_ his knees feel made of water whenever he’s around her. Fury at her, too: the casual way she stokes the forbidden flames soaring sky-high as her kicked-off heels between them. 

“I’m asking you now, Jon.”

“Asking me what?”

Fist on his throat. Might as well be: strangled way his voice comes out. Rasps a thumb down the side of his nose, then rakes his hand back through his hair. Little pull on the roots; scalp sings as if it’s her fingers tangled up in it. Wants them to be. Wants her laid on her back in the middle of his bed, hand in his hair, yanking his face between her thighs. Wants her to wrap a fist in the curls at his nape, jag his head back, not let go till he growls. Wants to do the same to her. Wind her hair like ruby rings round his fingers. Make her moan his name. Make her fucking _whine_ it.

“To put your hands on me.” Half-torn between fantasy and reality as her velvety voice rolls out. “To touch me.” Blinks away the images behind his eyes, focuses on the one right in front of him: Sansa sitting spread-legged on his kitchen counter, fingers trailing up her thighs. “Here.” Bites her lip, drags a hand between her legs. “ _Here_.”

Isn’t even aware of closing the distance between them. Can only focus on her spread legs, the strain of her tight, black jeans against her thighs. Suddenly he is standing flush between them. Hands resting gently on the counter either side of her. Palms sticking to polished marble. Head hanging close to hers, breath hot on her neck.

“I should call Robb,” he rumbles. “And your dad.” Flexes his fingers on the countertop, tries to breathe through the red-hot haze cloaking his brain. “Get them to come over and pick you — ”

Her lips skating the shell of his ear. “Call them if you like.”

“I will.” Skin aflame even as the timbre of his throat drops to ashes. “I’m going to.”

Feels the light-footed drag of her tongue on his lobe. “If that’s what you want to do.” Tiny tease of her teeth now. “Mm. Ring them up… I’ll listen to whatever daddy has to say.”

“ _Sansa_ — ”

“What?” Blinks at him as she pulls back: all blue-wide innocence, quirk in her brow. “I’m being a good girl, aren’t I?” Fingertips fluttering up to her neck as she adjusts the golden chain hanging round it. “I’ll do whatever my daddy tells me to do.” Finger to her lips now. “Mm, what _is_ it you want me to do? Go home with Dad and Robb?” Nips the tip of it, then drags it — damp and shiny — down over her plump bottom lip. “Or stay here with you?”

Fights the urge to bite that lip. “You know what I want, baby girl.”

“Yes,” she whispers, all bright-eyed and breathless. “Yes, I do.”

One hand lifting from the counter, trailing up the dip of her side. “What do I want?”

“Me.” Comes out as a whimper, her ribs expanding in his palm as he slots a grip on her waist. “You want me.”

“Clever girl,” he rumbles, rasping a thumb back and forth across one bone-notch, tightening his fingers. “Mm.” Dips his nose toward her neck, breathes in the scent singing off her skin. “Such a clever, clever girl.” Flattens his grip, presses a palm between her breasts, pushes her gently back. “But I shouldn’t want you.”

Wriggles on the countertop. “Jon — ”

“My best friend’s baby sister.” Drags his hand over her belly, bares down till she understands: lays back on the counter. “My boss’s daughter.” Flips up the hem of her shirt idly, flips it back: again and again till she whines. “Mm, what would he say about all this?”

Her hands spread-fingered on the marble either side of her. “I don’t care what he says.”

“I thought you said you’d listen to whatever daddy has to say.” Ignores the pulse of heat fighting with the blood to fill his cock; smooths his palm up beneath her shirt. “I thought you said you’d do whatever daddy told you to do.”

Muscles in her belly dancing against his hand. “What does he want me to do?”

“He wants you to tell him who left those bruises on your arms.” Leans low over her, fingers pushing her shirt up, up — _up_. “He wants to know who marked up your throat.” Pooled around her throat: all black lace and bare skin where the shirt was just sitting. “He wants to know what you were thinking about when you were being _handled_ by another man.”

Spine arching up from the countertop as he slides a finger along her collarbone. “You.”

“What was that?”

Hooked into the scanty black bra, pulls it down. “You.” The other cup, too. Breasts bare and bunched-up by lace and underwire, nipples pebbled in the red-washed air. “I was thinking about you.” Lightest touch of his thumb to the tip of her left breast, gentlest roll that leaves her gasping. “Mm, _Jon_ — I was thinking about you. _You_. You — you!”

“Quiet now, sweetheart.” Trails his thumb down to the underside of her breast, then pushes it back up to her nipple. Over and over. “Shh-shh-shh.” Pad pressing down a little firmer now; circles it, round and round till her whimpers soften to silence. “Mm. That’s better, baby. Much better.” Lifts his hand from her breast, lays his thumb to her lips. “What’s got you so worked up, hmm? Tell me.”

Lips part very slowly. “You.” Tongue — that little pink tongue — softly stroking the tip of his thumb: languorous, liquid as the heat pooling in his belly. “Mm, _you_.”

“Me?” he asks with a husk of innocence. “Why are you worked up over me, Sansa?”

Wraps her lips round his thumb now, sucks it deep. “Mm.” Cradles it on her tongue, then rolls it gently between her teeth. “Because I want you.” Slides it out of her mouth, tips back her head and closes her eyes as he trails it down over her chin. “Jon — _oh_ — because I’ve wanted you — wanted you a — oh, _fuck_.”

“Long time?” he says earnestly as he circles his thumb — wet from her mouth — round her nipple, draws it tight between his fingers. “You’ve wanted me for a long time?”

“Yes — _oh_ , yes.”

Rubs his finger and thumb together; peak pinched, her body a mountain-range of curves and dips against the sky as she arches up off the countertop. “How long, Sansa?”

“Jon. _Jon_ — please.”

“Shh.” Lowers his head now, replaces his thumb with his tongue: lands a light lick that has her canting her hips into his belt-buckle. “Weeks? Months?”

Gasp bubbles up from her throat. “ _Years_.”

“Years, hmm?” Breathes in the scent of her skin as he kisses and licks: vanilla, shea butter, little tang of lemon-zest. “Years being handled by other men. Marked up. Fucked into. Filled and used. All that time you were pretending it was me… is that right, Sansa?”

Twists her spine to get him on her other breast; he allows it. “Yes.” Rolls into the hand she lifts to lay on his head. “That’s right.” Fingers knotting into his hair, flexing against his scalp as she moans: soft and low. “Mm, that’s right, da— ”

“Is that what you called them?” Pulls at her nipple with his lips, soothes the sting of the stretch away with his tongue. “Daddy?”

Hears the shift of her hair as she nods. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it made me think of you.”

Lets his hips roll very gently between her thighs now. Hitch of breath in her throat. Strangled little moan as she spreads her legs wider, rocks up into his rhythm. Soft, slow — just enough to make them both see stars. Gives her nipple one last languid suck, then lays his cheek to her breast, rasps up the skin with his beard. She moans.

“When you were coming?”

“Yes,” she breathes. “When I was coming. Mm — before I came, too. Afterwards. All the time.” Hips rock-rock- _rocking_ as he lets her adjust their rhythm just a little faster: rasp of denim, skin of her belly smooth against his ridden-up shirt. “Every fucking minute… I just wanted to say your name.”

“My name?”

“Yes.”

Hulks over her now, hand in her hair, mouth on her throat. “Say it.”

“Jon.”

Teeth nipping at the soft skin beneath her ear. “Again.”

“ _Jon_.”

Threads his fingers deeper into her hair, presses his lips to her ear. “Are you wet, Sansa?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“How wet?”

Feels her fingertips wind down from his hair, ghost across his nape. “ _So_ wet.”

“Tell me what you want me to do to you.”

Nails scratching at his skin. “I want you inside me.”

“My fingers?” breathes it into her ear. “My cock?”

“Yes,” ebbs out on a thready little moan. “ _Yes_.”

“Against this counter?” he pants. “You want me to fuck you against this counter?” Runs his lips along her jawline as she nods and whines. “With my fingers? You want me to make you come on this counter with my fingers?” Finds her lip with his teeth, pulls at it — _hard_. “Is that what you want, sweetheart?”

Surges up to follow his mouth, claws a kiss at his lips. “Please. _Please_ , Jon.”

“Unbutton your jeans,” utters it low and soft into her mouth. Watches her watch him as she slides a hand between them, fumbles with her waistband. Heavy-lidded eyes: all haze and heat. “I said unbutton them.” Catches her wrist between his fingers as she tries to skin her jeans down her hips. “I didn’t say take them off.”

Eyes bursting blue-wide suddenly. “But, Jon — ”

“You said you’d listen to me… isn’t that what you said?” Crooks her hand up beside her head, his index finger pressing into her palm to keep her still. “You said you were a good girl.” Glances his nose very lightly against her own; draws back a heartbeat later. “Good girls do as they’re told.” Lifts a brow, leans close enough to kiss her — or to bite. “If they don’t do as they’re told… they get picked up and taken home.”

“No!” Rolls her hips up into him, breasts pushing against his chest; hard nipples straining over her bundled-down bra. “ _No_. Please. I’ll be good.” Looks up from her breasts to her face again, licks his lips. Slowly. “ _Oh_ — I’ll be so good, Jon.”

Rewards her blue-wide eyes with a long, slow kiss. “I believe you.” Pulls away a little, rolls his lips together as if to catch the last lingering trace of her taste. Trails a hand down between her breasts. “I believe you, sweetheart.”

Dips and shifts away from him, the taut plain of her belly as she sucks in her breath: short, sharp — slipping from her in a thousand moans and curses, each more colourful than the last. Keeps his gaze fixed on her eyes, little smile soft on his lips as he skates a thumb over her navel, flattens his palm to the soft stretch of skin beneath it.

“How badly do you want me to touch you, Sansa?”

Shouldn’t keep teasing her. Doesn’t _mean_ to keep teasing her — but the words just slip out. Soft and slow as the sweep of his thumb against her skin: back and forth, back and forth as she writhes like some fire-haired goddess on the cool marble countertop.

“Badly,” she manages to grit out between moans. “So, _so_ badly.”

“Is that why you wore something so lacy, something so… _little_ , hmm?” Drops his fingers just a bit, skates the hem of the thin black thong skimming its ribbons across her hips. “Were you hoping I would see it?” Slides further down, down — _down_. “Were you hoping I would take it off with my teeth?”

“ _Fuck_. Jon!”

Even through the lacy black slip, he can feel the heat of her. The wetness seeping through silk to soak his palm. Lets her settle into his hand. Lets her buck and roll and writhe till she realises he is holding her still. Unmoving. _Shh-shh-shh_. Flex of his fingers to match the rhythm of his hushing till she sags back against the marble, thighs splaying wide. Wide and flat. Mm. The perfect cradle.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “Good girl, Sansa.”

“Jon,” she whimpers. “Touch me. Please.” Rolls her head on the counter, blinks up at him: beat of her lashes soft as the pitter-patter of rain at the window. “I need you to touch me. Please… _please_ , Jon.” Snakes a hand down to wrap her fingers round his own, presses them tight against her. “I need you inside me. I need it so _badly_ , Jon.”

“I know how badly you need it.” Slides a finger down the side of her thong now, then skates the pearl of his nail very gently up over her clit. Feels her fucking _collapse_ into the counter with a sob. “I can feel how badly you need it.” Trails between slick, hot folds; teases the very edges of her. “You’re so wet, sweetheart. So, so wet… is it all for me?”

Thighs creeping up around his hand. “All for you.”

“No-one else?”

Shakes her head. “No-one else.” Flicker of a frown pulling up across her brow as he starts to circle her clit with his thumb. Softly, softly. “Just you. Only you — _oh_.” Thighs splaying wide again as her hips rock up. “Always you.”

Hears the rent of the silky black fabric as he rips the thong up and away. Falls in slippery ribbons through his fingers, flutters over his shoulder as he throws it out of the way. Stokes some of the fire back into his gut. The fury. Eyes roving every inch of her: red-painted lips hanging open in ragged pants and moans, lashes swept down on her cheeks, nipples aching for his mouth, belly dancing with tremors of near-release — deep, sweet heat soaking straight to his skin now as he cups her in his palm.

“Say my name.”

Glides a finger inside her. “Jon.”

“Say it again.”

Another. “ _Jon_.”

Crooks them, then pulls them slowly free. Lets her mewl and whine impatiently. Slides them back inside, thumb circling her clit. Watches her as he works her. Every muscle-flicker of a moan streaking across her face. Her fingers — clawing at the counter one minute, his wrist the next, then scrabbling up to roll at her nipples. He lets her fill her palms with her own breasts; feels his cock straining at the sight of it.

Wraps his free hand round her throat, squeezes gently — a little bit of fury burning bright still to see the neon-light limn the bruises on her arms, remind him of how the fuck this dreamlike night even started.

“That feel good?” he rumbles softly. “Does that feel good, baby?”

Bitten lip, bruised-up throat — still manages to look like some innocent little angel blinking those baby-blues up at him. “Mm-hmm.” Pinching at her nipple with one hand; other one, she twines round his wrist at her throat. “Feels _so_ good.”

“Better than those boys who left you with bruises on your arms?” Voice slipping lower now, threatening at a growl. “Hmm? Better than them?”

“Yes,” gasps it. “ _Yes_ , Jon.”

Squeezes her throat very gently. “You going to ask them to _handle_ you again?”

“No,” bursts out of her in a sing-song shout as he rasps a thumb beneath her chin, flexes his fingers inside her. “Only you. I’ll only ever ask you.”

“Good girl.”

Leans forward to brush a kiss to her lips. Gentle little reward that makes her moan and smile the sweetest sigh. Draws back. Watches her. Listens. Room full of soft, wet sounds: his fingers working in and out and around her, rain at the windows, little mewls bubbling up between her lips — the steady vibration of his phone in the pocket against his thigh. Thread of reality splitting through the sky of this fantasy like a lightning-seam. But he’ll ignore it for a minute longer.

She’s close.

So, so close.

“Are you going to be a good girl and come for me?” he asks, keeping his rhythm exactly the same: steady crooks of his fingers, pressing up and deep and out — constant circling of his thumb on her plush little clit. She whimpers. “Going to be a _really_ good girl and say my name when you come for me?” Feels her start to flutter round his fingers. “Hmm? You going to do that, baby girl?”

Flutter turning to liquid iron: clamping hard then relenting. “Yes, yes, _yes_.”

“Go on then, baby.” Rhythm, rhythm, rhythm. Sound of her pulling at his fingers — it’s enough to make him want to explode inside his jeans. “Come for me, Sansa.” One last, tight circle of his thumb. “Come.”

Buckles up at the waist, hands flying to pin his wrist between her legs. “Jon. Jon! _Jon_.”

“That’s it. Mm, that’s it.” Strokes her through it all: endless pulsing, flush of heat ebbing up to turn her skin a dewy pink. “Good girl, Sansa.” Circling softly still; fingers rocking gently inside her. She’s laid back flat on the countertop, breasts rolling with her quickened breath, mouth an o-shaped exhale of curses and names and prayers. He keeps stroking her; fishes the phone out of his pocket with the other hand. “Robb? Yeah, hey.”

Skitters up to sitting now, her eyes burning on his own as he nods down the phone, makes the right sounds, shapes a shushing sound with his lips.

“Yeah she’s with me.” Pulls his fingers out of her very slowly; smiles to himself as she collapses back with a moan muffled into her hands. “Mm, yeah, fine — just called me to pick her up from _Greyjoys_. Think her friends left a little early.” Slides the zipper of her jeans up smoothly. “Of course. I’m running her back home now, bro. Yeah, yes. Okay. Bye!”

Keeps hold of her zipper even as she tries to push it back down. “ _Jon_ — ”

“I asked you what you wanted,” he says calmly. “You could have had anything.” Slots a grip on her wrist, lifts her hand away from her jeans, drifts it across the straining zipper of his own instead. “But you made a choice.” Skates her hand away even as she whines in protest. “To come with my fingers on this counter… that’s what you said you wanted.”

Knots a fist into his belt, tugs him close. “Dick move, Jon Snow.” Bites her lip, fury warring with the heady haze cloaking her blue eyes. “That — _and_ the phone call.”

“Mm.” Crooks a smile at her, melts it against her lips as he kisses her: slow, soft. “Don’t act hard done by, baby.” Shifts into the hand she’s got at his belt. “At least you got to come. Hard. With my name on your lips.” Slips a hand down her bare arm. “Mm, and look — not a single bruise in sight.” Catches up her wrist, presses it to his lips. “See? Handling. Hurting. There’s a difference.”

Rolls his lip between her teeth, then sucks it into a kiss. “I want to make you come, Jon.” Smiles up at him, brushes her nose against his. “It’ll be good.” Finds his fingers, presses them to her breast, moans lowly as he rasps a thumb across her nipple. “ _Oh_ — it’ll be so good, Jon.”

“I believe you.” Kisses her: soft, slow. Slips a hand beneath her breast. “Maybe next time.” Smooths her bra back into place, fingers straightening the lacy straps. “Right now we’ve got to get this good little girl home, haven’t we?” Pulls the bunched-up shirt back over her chest. “Her brother’s worried sick.” Cups her jaw in his hand, tilts back her head. “Her daddy, too.”

“Fuck, Jon.”

Tries not to smirk as she groans into their kiss. Relaxes into her sound, her shape. Safe, soft in his arms. Salt-streaks on her thighs. Smeared lipstick just above the left edge of her upper lip. Hazy blue-wide eyes. Flush of heat blooming colour in her cheeks. Only marks he’s left on her. Holding her. Handling her — _softly_.

Fury melts away. Slowly. Fire in his heart. Mm, that stays burning bright as the neon-light limning their smiles: same colour as her hair — as the ruby rings wound tight around his fingers.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I just really needed to get that ~~little bit of~~ smut out of my system (4000+ words?! I am so sorry). Have a good day/night/week/month/year/life, my loves — I am off to go repent my sins. Probably. ❤️  
>  **p.s.** I do like this little _Fury_ framework. Maybe a part two? Maybe not? Maybe speaking to an empty room right now? Who knows? Not me. Okay. I go now. 👋


	2. Bastard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Soooo… I’m back (already!!) with the heat on high. Simmer, simmer — this is just pure filth basically with a dash of the ole feels thrown in… so please enjoy if u still around/up for this! 💥

Company dinner. Dad’s insistence that she go. Normally, she’d protest, pout a little — anything to avoid it, anything to get her own way. But tonight it’s different. Tonight she wants to go. Has incentive to go. Mm, there it sits wrapped up in a well-cut suit at the table as she sways into the restaurant: her incentive.

Dark suit, tasteful cufflinks flashing at the wrists of the starch-white shirt. Dark hair a tumble of curls limned by candlelight. Dark eyes — dark, _dark_ eyes — hooked on her own.

For half a heartbeat.

Then he seems to master himself, stow away whatever thoughts — memories, fantasies, _aches_ — are making that little muscle flicker beneath his beard. Gets to his feet, holds a hand out to her father, shakes it firmly. Has to bite her lip at the squeeze of his grip, the sight of it, the slip of memory of what it felt like wrapped round her throat.

Hand at the small of her back. Robb propelling her gently forward as he pats someone already seated at the table on the shoulder. Bumps Jon’s chest with a fist, then sweeps into his seat. Sansa flexes her toes inside the confines of her sky-high heels, tilts her head to the side as Jon finally turns those dark eyes onto her again.

“Sansa.”

“Jon.”

Their voices are a similar pitch: low, pleasant. Maybe even a hint of coolness to his tone, the light smile tightening on his lips. Proffers her cheek. Mm, no coolness _there_ — fleeting kiss a fucking firebrand scorching up her skin. Resists the urge to roll toward it, turn her cheek and give him her mouth. Draws away from his lips. Looks at him from beneath her blackened lashes, fingers flexing on her clutch-bag.

“Make it home okay the other night?”

Works her jaw: scissors it, right to left. “You know I did.”

“Oh, yes.” Little dip of his head, sun-burst in his eyes. “Now I remember.” Pulls back the chair beside his own. “Minute after midnight. Bit of whiskey.” Leans low as she slips into the seat he is tucking toward the table. “Bruises on your arm.” Nods toward her father at the head of the table. “Did daddy have anything to say about that… situation?”

Fights through the hitch of breath in her throat. “I had that situation handled.”

“Did you now?”

“Yes,” breathes it. “I did.”

Light little smile back on his lips as he takes his seat beside her. Adjusts the edge of his pressed white shirt, smooths a thumb across one elegantly expensive cufflink. Settles back into his chair, rolling his wrists as if to resettle the sleeves of his dark, well-cut suit. Moment where it strains across his chest. Has to look away. Quickly. Swallow the watery hunger pooling on her tongue. Doesn’t do anything to tamp down the fire burning in her belly, though. Bit of bloodlust raging full to fury in her veins now to see him so calm, so casual, so _cool_ — as if he isn’t even affected by their proximity: by the press of her knee against his thigh beneath the table.

Tries to sit still, breathe through the fury. But soon enough it bubbles and bursts.

“Bastard,” she hisses quietly. “You _bastard_ — I wanted more.”

Quirks a brow at her. “More what?” Flutter of his fingers toward the tabletop, even as he rocks his thigh into her knee. “More wine?” Catches up a glass jug, flexes a grip on the handle, tugs it toward himself. “More water?” Trails a thumb down the cool, damp glass as she scowls at him; bites his lip to see her shake her head. “No? Tell me what you want, then… tell me, Sansa.”

Light as that teasing smile, the tone of his voice. Closes her eyes. Desperately thinks of round numbers, zeroes, shapes, circles. Tries to control her breathing. _One_. Flashes a sideways look at him, falters midway through her count: _three, four, fi_ — _uck_.

Tilting his head at her, thumb rasping back and forth across the edge of the tablecloth. Wants to hit him, _hurt_ him — because he knows exactly what he is doing. Making her think of that thumb — that _rasp_ — turning her nipples hard as ice, rolling between her lips, pressing down onto her tongue. Wants it in her mouth. Here, now. All the way up. Fingers, too. A pair of them sliding into her mouth, pulling back: in, out, in —

“Madam?” comes a voice at her shoulder. “Would you like to hear the specials again?”

Dimly aware that her lips are parted, mouth hanging slightly open. Practically fucking panting. Swallows the moan smoking low in her throat. Turns a sweet smile over her shoulder to the waiter. Chalkboard in hand, pen tapping lightly against an order-pad. Scans her eyes across the elegant, white scrawls.

“Oh, _uh_ — the Bresse duck, please.” Gifts him a sunny smile. “Medium rare.”

Writes it with a happy little flourish. “And for you, sir?”

“I’ll have the breast too, please.” Jon keeps his voice mild, pleasant — at odds with the damnable smirk perking up his lips. “Pink as you like it.”

Can feel colour rising in her cheeks. Blooms of heat — _blushing_. She’s blushing. Like a schoolgirl hearing the word _breast_ for the first time. Mm, the promise of the word _pink_. Presses her thighs together beneath the table, rocks a little in her seat. Lifts the napkin from her lap to her mouth. No lipstick to dab away from her chin. Not a smear, not a smudge. Just needs something to hide behind as heat floods fire up her throat. Cloaks it like a vice — like a _fist_.

Doesn’t quite catch the sound scratching on her tongue quick enough. It squeaks out: a thin tendril of a whimper. _Fuck_.

“Sansa?” Robb’s voice drifting somewhere faraway. “You okay?”

Dad’s rumble now, too. “You look a little flushed, sweet one.”

“Yes! _Yes_. I’m — ” Takes a shaky breath, checks her tone. “I’m fine. Just a bit hot in here.” Pushes back her chair. “I’m just going to get a bit of air.”

Grey eyes dropping to the clutch-bag in her hands. “None of those cancer-sticks, please.”

“Of course not, Dad.”

Keeps her tone playful — even _if_ she is a little petrified that there’ll be a wet-spot left behind on the chair once she has vacated it. Liquid heat between her thighs, that much is true. Can feel how damp her underwear is; the electric shift of soaked silk against her clit. Takes a breath, pushes up from her seat. Leaves the table without a backward glance.

Cigarette between her lips almost as soon as she is outside. Wriggling her thighs together beneath the confines of her black dress as she tilts her head back against the rough brick, lights up. Plume of smoke billowing out from her nostrils — yet none of the hunger simmering in her blood burns up away with it.

Wishes it would.

Just so she can think straight. Have a bit of sense. Rein back the control she likes — _needs_ — to keep on herself. Wants, desires, aches, lusts, kinks. Doesn’t matter what it is. Anything about herself — _anything_ at all — she likes to own, know inside out, sail on it, steer it, never relinquish grip on the reins that guide it. Stay wrapped around her fists, those reins: now, then, always. No man has ever managed to unfurl them from her fingers. Mm, no man — apart from Jon.

That he unfurled them, hefted them, guided them so effortlessly doesn’t surprise her. How could it? Jon is Jon. Lone wolf who doesn’t seem to suffer even at the edges of the pack; thrives on it, if anything. Some figure cut up from muscle and moonlight, shadows in his eyes, scar-flecked hands that can handle anything.

Mm, so it doesn’t surprise her that those hands could handle — _hold_ — her better than anyone ever has, better than anyone ever _could_.

What surprises her is how much she wanted him to handle her. That she encouraged it. That she _allowed_ it. How quickly it all unfolded after years and years of longing. Normally makes a man beg for her, bend to his fucking knees for her — but with Jon… with Jon, it was — _is_ — different. With Jon, she wants to be on _her_ knees, wants his cock in her mouth: hard, hot. She wants to suck the fucking soul right out of him. No man has ever made her want to do _that_. Not like this.

Cigarette burnt-down to its end now, flaring at her fingers. Takes one last drag. Grinds the butt out against the rough, brick wall. Wail of sirens as a police-car rushes by in the road outside the restaurant. People shaking out umbrellas as the rain finally eases up. Bar sign wrapped in red neon-strips the street opposite. Flashing slowly. Makes her think of the red-washed air in his apartment, the red-warm pulse of his mouth on her nipple.

“ _Fuck_.”

Runs a hand back through her hair. Ducks inside the doorway, nods her thanks at the doorman as he stands back to let her through. Dithers in the foyer. Can’t go back to the table. Not now, not yet — not like _this_. Can’t sit beside him. Can’t _trust_ herself to sit beside him. Even with eyes on them — Robb, Dad, half a dozen share-holders, partners, acquaintances, friends, waiters, chefs, fucking doormen — she doesn’t know what the fuck this state she’s in might make her do.

Finds a bathroom. Chucks the clutch-bag down by the sink as she grips at the edge of the countertop, rocks her weight onto her arms. Head hanging low, hair a fiery curtain shielding her face. Tosses it back after a moment, catches sight of herself in the mirror. Pupils blown-wide. Flush of fire in her cheeks. Cups a hand round her nape, digs her nails into the soft skin beneath her hair. Other hand trailing up her thigh.

Buzz of her clutch-bag against the smooth countertop halts her hand midway through its journey beneath her black dress. Lets her fingers crawl toward it, snap open the clasp, snatch up her phone.

 **Jon** : is there a situation?

Rocks up onto her tiptoes as she feels herself fucking _clench_ at a handful of black text on a white screen. _I’m handling it_.

 **Jon** : don’t you dare.

Whines. Dips down onto her soles as the hand cupped round her nape slides down her throat. _I need to_.

 **Jon** : keep your fingers away from your cunt, Sansa.

Gasps his name at the phone-screen. Hand cupping her breast as her thumb gently circles her nipple: hard — _achingly_ hard — arching through the silk. Can’t even type now. Can only stare desperately as little dots appear, as the phone buzzes in her hand.

 **Jon** : I mean it. Touch it — and there will be trouble.

Pushes her breath out through pursed lips. Eyes rolling closed then flicking slowly open as she types with trembling fingers. _Mm… what about my tits?_

 **Jon** : they’re mine. Get your hands off them and get back here… daddy’s missing you.

One last little tease of her nipple. Biting at her cheeks as the spring-warmth burst of pleasure pulses through her. _If he misses me that much he can come find me_.

 **Jon** : don’t tempt him.

Nips her lip, waits as those little dots flash up, fade, flash up again. Buzz in her hand. Wishes it was against her — 

**Jon** : enough, baby girl — do as you’re told.

Does as she’s told; but she takes her time about it.

Puts her phone back into the bag, finds her lipstick. Touches it up perfectly: a deeper shade of red than usual. One that matches the soles of her sky-high heels. Mm — and the slip of lace she’s wearing underneath her black dress. Adjusts her neckline, bites her lip as she accidentally brushes against a rock-hard nipple. Shit. Going braless may have been a mistake; settles her hair so it cascades down over her chest. All she can do — all she’s _allowed_ to do.

Feels his eyes settle there soon as she sways up to the table. Takes her seat, waves off Dad’s comments about _bad habits_ and the expense of keeping them. Robb opens another bottle of Bordeaux, fills the glasses in his immediate semi-circle of this half of the table. Sansa clinks her glass to his in thanks, sweeps her hair up to drape over one shoulder now. Breath tangling in her throat as she hears a low, rumbling growl ebb up beside her.

“You touched yourself.”

Swallows her sip of red wine. “I didn’t — ”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Puts her glass down slowly. “I touched myself.”

“Where?”

Growls the word; _feels_ it between her thighs. “Just my — my tits.”

“One or both?”

Flares a look at him: hint of fire in her eyes. “Does it _matter_ , Jon?”

“They belong to me,” he says very, very quietly. “I like to know _exactly_ what’s been done to what is mine, Sansa.”

The fucking _nerve_ of — “One.” Panted it before she’s even aware of it. “Just — just one.”

“Left or right?”

Could _hit_ him — or hurl herself at him. “I can’t remember.”

“Think.”

Soft as when he hushed her, the tone of his voice now. It ebbs over her like a sea-wave, something warmed by the sun, something oddly soothing. Feels herself pulling her fingers free of the reins controlling her rhythms — bit by bit. Keeps her eyes steady on his own, even as she quells the tremble starting in her lip with her teeth.

“Left.”

Skate of his fingertip along her thigh beneath the tabletop. “Did it feel good?”

“Mm.” Parts her legs — just a little. “Your mouth felt better.”

“Did it now?”

“Yes,” breathes it. “It did.”

Fingertip hooking the hem of her dress now, running softly just beneath it. “Have you been thinking about my mouth, Sansa?”

“Yes.”

Palm now: flattening out to span her thigh. “Thinking about where you’d like it?”

“ _Yes_.”

Slipping up, up — _up_. “Tell me where you’d like it.”

“Jon.” Catches hold of his hand, tries to push it back toward her knee. “ _Jon_.” Grapples with him, even as she parts her thighs: wider — _wider_. “Fuck, Jon.”

Leans a little closer, voice dropping lower. “Tell. Me.”

“You _know_ where.” Straight-backed in her chair now, fingers pressing his wrist, guiding his hand higher. “There. _Fuck_. Right there, da— ”

Chime of a wine-glass shatters through her like a bullet. Makes her jump in her seat, scrabble her thighs shut around his hand. Waiters emerging round the table. Dad’s benevolent declaration that _dinner is served_ as everyone fans out napkins, refills glasses, nods thanks, blows away the steam of soup and steak and seabass and — _oh_ _fuck fuck_ _fuck_ — and Jon’s hand is still between her legs even as Dad stands up to make a little speech.

“ _Jon_ ,” hisses it.

Flexes his fingers. “Shh-shh-shh.” Heel of his hand pushing firm against her red thong; pretty sure her cheeks are the same fucking colour. “Quiet now, sweetheart.”

Bites back a feeble protest. She is sure she should be incensed by this. Sure she should have fury burning up her blood black as soot. Sure she should probably smack his hand away, raise her glass to daddy’s toast like a good little girl. _Sure_ of it — so why is she rocking her hips into the hand between her legs? Why is she so close to coming she can almost _see_ it? Some hazy red-gold cloud floating just behind her eyes. Muffles a moan.

This is fucked — this is so _fucked_ — but it feels so fucking good.

“Do you need to come?”

Asks it so casually. Anyone would think he’s bent his head a little closer to offer her a refill of wine, a taste of his main course. Fuck — does she want _that_. Taste of him all over her tongue: salt-hot and smooth and sloppy in her mouth. Wants to roll his cock like he’s — right _now_ — rolling her clit. Round and round, over and under. Mm. Wants to suck it deep and slide it out, look up at him with blue-wide eyes as she does it. Wants it so _badly_.

“Yes,” she breathes. “ _Yes_.”

“Right here?” he growls softly. “Right now?”

“Yes,” bursts out of her. “Yes! I need to, but — _but_ — ”

Fingers still working her: slow, steady. “But what?”

“But I want to wait,” she whispers. “I — _oh_ — I want to _wait_ , Jon.”

Rocks his thumb back and forth. “Till we’re alone?” 

“Mm-hmm.” Bites her lip, then swiftly smooths a guileless smile as someone catches her eye across the table. Hissing out the corner of her mouth now. “ _Please_ , Jon.”

Thumb slowing; fingers, too. “You want to wait till we’re alone, hmm?” Trailing down over the soaked silk of her thong. “You’re sure?”

“ _Jon_.”

Slips his palm down her thigh slowly. “Shh-shh-shh.” Lifts his hand toward his mouth now, as if he’s wiping a spot of red wine jus from the corner of it — but she sees him flick his tongue over the very tip of his finger. Close his eyes at the taste. “Mm.” Meets her gaze as he sucks it very, very softly. “Lovely jus. And this breast? Just _the_ most perfect shade of pink… don’t you think, Sans?”

“Bastard,” she grits out. “Oh, you _bastard_.”

Raises his wine-glass to his lips. “That’s not very polite.” Catches up a ruby-drop clinging to his bottom lip; finds she is jealous of it as she watches it seep into his tongue. “All that time spent with those boys, hmm?” Puts his glass down, slots his fingers round the thin stem in a way that makes her breathless. “ _Bad_ boys bruising you up… teaching you bad words.” Smoky eyes hazy on her own. “Making you act like a bad girl.”

Hangs on the air, that sentence: smoky as his eyes. Like a question — a _threat_. Something at the edges of all that smoke telling her she doesn’t even know what being _bad_ truly means. Only _thinks_ she does. Has acted it out. Softcore spanks, red-lipped counts. Wriggling her wrists free from sloppily-tied knots. Mask of pleasure threatening to slip as she fakes her way through yet another disappointing disciplining.

Annoys her that Jon knows all of this. Reads it in her eyes, her flared nostrils, the fleeting glances she keeps skirting at his hands. Those fucking _hands_. Wants them all over her: running down her sides, landing pink palm-prints on her arse, filling her up with his fingers. Letting her _rock_ into their rhythm, their strength, their unrelenting —

“Regretting that choice you made, hmm?”

Snatches her eyes away from his hands. “What choice?”

“Waiting,” he says with a soft smile. “Could be hours till we’re alone.” Flexes his fingers round the wine-glass stem again; has to bite her cheek to keep from moaning. “Hours and hours and _hours_ , Sansa.” Looks at her as he takes another sip of wine. “Think you can wait?”

Levels her chin, stares at him. “I _know_ I can wait.” Reels back her breath, tightens her grip on the reins — bit by bit. “Waited years before… didn’t I?”

“For what?”

“For you.”

“Mm, but you’ve had a taste now, baby girl.” Rasps his fingers across his lips. “Waiting gets a bit harder once you’ve had a little taste of what you’re missing.”

“Who says I’m missing anything?”

Gives the softest chuckle. “Sansa, sweetheart… I’m not one of your boys.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’m a man,” he says very softly. “A man who sees everything. Knows what you want before _you_ know it… and can act on it in a way you’ll ache for.” Feels the heat of his eyes as he skates a look over every inch of her, reads her like a fucking book: every hint of hunger hanging on her like air, like smoke. “Remember that, sweetheart.”

Doesn’t need to remember it. Knows it. _Feels_ it. Can never fucking forget it. One orgasm on a polished marble countertop. _One_ — and he’s ruined her for everyone but him. Claimed her body. Shackled her soul. Can never pretend again. Can never take some stupid boy to bed, stick her arse out and wait for a soft little palm to spank it all while moaning in some electrically-gloriously-fake-fake- _fake_ ecstasy. Can never rile her ex up till he grips her arms just a little _too_ tightly. Can never chase away the hurt of past heartbreak and bastard boyfriends with anyone now — mm, anyone but _him_.

“Why now?” ebbs out before she can bite it back. “Why _now_ , Jon?” Twists the midi-ring on her index finger round and round. “Why not never… why not sooner?”

“History,” he murmurs, eyes flicking from her fingers to the gaze she’s resting on him. “You weren’t ready. I wasn’t, either.” Rubs a thumb against his glass, considers. “Breakups. Bad choices. Bruises on your arm… mm, _that_ might’ve woken me up — but it’s always been there, hasn’t it?” Looks lazily around the table, gifts her brother an easy smile, settles his eyes back on her own. “Whatever it is between us… it’s always been there.” 

“Mm.” Pushes her tongue into the crook of her front teeth, then rolls her lips together. “I meant what I said… the other night, I — I meant what I said.”

Quirks a brow at her. “That you wanted to come against my kitchen counter?”

“You can be utterly insufferable sometimes, Jon Snow — do you know that?”

Shares her smile. “I know.” Shifts toward her a little. “And I know that you meant what you said the other night, Sans. About years… and wanting — I know it.” Lets out a sigh that makes her shiver. “Because I’ve wanted you for years, too.”

“Tell me,” she whispers, giving into the cloak of heat resettling in her veins. “Tell me what you want me to do to you.”

Flash of fire in his eyes. “I want you to sit right here… ” taps the smirk slowly stretching out beneath his beard “… and ride my mouth till the only word you remember is my name.”

“ _Jon_ — ”

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Clever girl.” Slides his eyes across the table, smirk slipping to a sweet smile as he bends his ear to the conversation opposite. “Sorry, Robb — what were you just trying to say? I was a little… distracted.”

Watches his mouth move for a millisecond of casual conversation: pearly teeth, wicked tongue sliding across his plump bottom lip. Can’t take it. Not for a moment longer.

Scrapes up from her seat. Excuses herself from the table and sways toward the foyer.

She needs to come. She needs to come so _badly_ her body feels like it’s on fire. Burning up. Hunger invading her — _consuming_ her. Aching to slide a hand between her legs, sink her fingers inside — to the _hilt_ — pretend they belong to him.

“Fuck.”

Barely makes it behind the door. Slams it shut, fingers scrabbling to find the lock as she scrapes up her skirt. Pools it round her hips, tears at the lacy thong. Nearly sobs as it gets caught. Moans as it falls away, hooks up on her knees. Splays them wide as the red ribbons will allow; touches a fingertip tentatively to her clit — nearly buckles to the fucking floor.

“ _Fuck_.”

So tender — so turned-on — that it _hurts_. Scrabbling on her sky-high heels, rocking back against the door for balance. Can _hear_ how wet she is: slippery sound as her finger slips up inside. Another. _Another_ — and she still feels empty. Wants to be full. Wants _his_ fingers crooking up inside her. His fingers filling her up. Stretching her ready for his cock. Wants his mouth on her clit, yes, sucking, licking, making it throb as much as it aches — but she wants him inside her even more.

Bowed now: spine arching away from the door as she rummages mercilessly through her clutch-bag. Flutters round her own fingers as she finally finds her phone with her free hand, types urgently. _I couldn’t wait, Jon. I couldn’t wait_.

 **Jon** : where are you?

Knees buckling as his reply flashes up almost instantly. Soft, wet sounds as she adjusts her hand a little between her thighs. Moan slips past her lips at the slight movement. _Bathroom_.

 **Jon** : where are your fingers?

Crooked up now as if he’s controlling their movement. Pressing that spot that makes her see stars, spotlights, smoky eyes and a lone wolf’s snarl. _Inside_. Trembling as she types half-blind, gasping a little now. _They’re inside me_.

Three little dots. Flashing up, fading away, flashing up again. Eyes hooked on the too-bright screen in the dim-lit bathroom. Back flattening against the door as her hips hollow away from her hand, as she follows them even so with her fingers. Give and take. Take and give. Waging a war on her own body. Fighting it, surrendering to it. Over and over. Sticky wrist, taste of lipstick under her nipping teeth.

“Bastard,” she breathes aloud. “Reply, you _bas_ — ”

Soft little sound against the door at her back. Doesn’t knock. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. She knows it’s him. _Feels_ him. Lock, handle, elegantly-carved slab of ashwood — doesn’t matter. Feels him through it all. Steps away from it. Lets her fingers slip out, her salt-streaked hand fall limply against her hip.

Turns the lock.

He sweeps in silent as a snowstorm. Lone wolf cutting out from the shadows of the trees: all low shoulders, narrowed eyes. Closes the door quietly behind him. She swallows as she hears the click of the lock.

“Jon — ”

Pleas skitter away from her lips as he holds up a hand. Palm-out — but there’s nothing peace-keeping about this gesture. Rasps it across his beard now, lowers his gaze to her ruched-up dress, her damp fingers, the lacy bit of red lapping round her knees. Makes a sound low in his throat. She can’t help the moan she gives to hear it.

“ _Jon_ — ”

“Shh-shh-shh.” Puts his finger to his lips, then takes half a step toward her; frowns as her moan gets a little softer. “Shh-shh- _shh_. Mm, that’s better.” Level with her now, throwing her in his shadow. “What did I tell you? Hmm… what did I tell you, Sansa?”

“I couldn’t — ”

“That’s not what I told you.” Skates a fingertip very lightly along her cheekbone, lifts a strand of hair back behind her ear. “I told you to keep your fingers away from your cunt.” Leans close, whisper of his lips following his fingertip trail. “I told you there’d be trouble if you touched it.” Lips at her lobe, bumping over the gold of her earrings, the soft stretch of skin just beneath. “You want to get into trouble… is that it?”

“I want you,” she breathes. “Jon, I want _you_.”

Fleeting sting: a bite on her lobe. “You’ve got me, baby girl.” Nose skimming along her cheek, fingers slotting a grip into her hair. Tilts her head back to meet his eyes. Hazy. Heady. Hungry as her own. “I’m right here.” Rewards her mewl with the sweetest, softest kiss — then jags on her hair, smile turning wicked on his lips. “Bend over the sink.” Another little jag: scalp singing sweetly even as it smarts. “ _Now_ , Sansa.”

Does as she’s told; doesn’t take her time about it.

“Bad of you to disobey me… wasn’t it?”

Hangs on the air, that question: smoky as the hunger burning in her gut. Soon as he says it, she knows that she won’t have to pretend at anything tonight. Won’t have to wear a mask, fake a moan. Knows that he won’t disappoint her. Knows that he never could.

“Yes,” she whispers. “It was very bad of me.”

Whisper whines into a mewl when she feels hands — those fucking _hands_ — skim down her sides, haul her hips where he wants them. Slides a polished shoe between her sky-high heels, bumps his thigh into the cradle of her own. She moans: low, loud — so loud he swoops down over her back, turns her face toward him with a hand curled round her jaw.

“Are you sorry?”

Shifts into his touch: jaw, thigh — _everywhere_. “I’m so, _so_ sorry.”

“Sorry what?”

Cries out as he rocks his leg up between her thighs. “Jon!”

“Again.”

Grips the hand holding her jaw, tries to wrench him closer. “ _Jon_.”

“That’s better,” breathes it against her lips. “Much better, baby.” Lets her claw a kiss at his mouth for half a heartbeat, then slowly draws up and back. Feels the buttons of his suit-jacket gliding down the bone-notches of her spine. Whines. “Shh-shh-shh.” Strokes a hand across the small of her back: softly, softly till she quiets down a little. “Good girl, Sansa… keep that up and I might let you come tonight.”

“ _Jon_ — ”

But the words are snatched from her lips as he drops to his knees behind her.

Hands — those fucking _hands_ — pushing apart her thighs. Kisses on their inner seams; rasp of his beard against soft skin. Tries to focus on it. All of it. Desperately.

Catches hold of her own eyes in the mirror, wills herself to keep them open — _please, please, please_ — then his tongue licks upward and her world goes black.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> I’m so sorry (again!) for over 4,000( **!!!!** ) words. My chapters on literally any other fic I have ever written rarely go above the 2,000-word mark so this is… unprecedented and peculiar — I guess I really had a _lot_ of USWT (unresolved smut writing tension) to work out of my system, eh?! **1** more chapter _at least_ because they need to get it on you get my drift before we all get the fuck out of this weird kinky in-between space we’re currently cohabiting… Hope that's okay, honeys. Hugs and kisses, love and light to anyone reading this! ❤️  
>  **p.s.** YES, I MAKE A PICSET. U WELCOME.


	3. Bathroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Look it’s a holy weekend I’m just doing my civic duty balancing out all that godliness with some good old-fashioned carnal SIN. Sorry it’s been 84 years _[insert Titanic gif here]_ since the last chapter but here it is: a shiny new one if u still wanting u some more of **#FuryJon**... you are?? then what you waiting for, honey?! 🔥
> 
>   
> 
> 
> you can thank [Foy Vance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wRnkFeywfBE) for the soundtrack that finally made me write this btw, that voice, man, that _voice_...

First little lick has his head spinning.

Second makes him blink black-blue for half a heartbeat as his brain damn near explodes behind his eyes.

Third, fourth, fifth, si— fuck it, he can’t even count now. Too focussed, too honed-in. He’s in a rhythm. _His_ rhythm: polished and perfect and practised with just the right hint of slop and salt and _spit_ as he sucks her up, holds her under.

Holds her _up_ , too. Has to. Because she’s wriggling. Impatient. Trying to set the pace.

Mm, that just won’t do.

“Stay still.”

Digs a grip on each plump rise of her arse. Pushes her forward till her belly’s cut in half by the sink, till her back’s thrown up and out and she’s skittering on those sky-high heels.

Keeps his grip tight: a warning squeeze. Has the effect he knew it would have. Makes her reach back, flail, try to find a fingerhold in his hair.

Doesn’t stop her wriggling. So he draws back. Holds her there — but she’s strong. Fuck, is she _strong_. Bucking back into his hands, hips dipping down and forward and _out_ and suddenly she’s got his mouth right back where she wants it.

“Bad girl.”

Growls it. Vibration of his voice only makes her whine louder, jackhammer a little. Stutter and still and stutter again.

Oh, she’s close.

So, so _close_.

Already.

It’s tempting. Very, _very_ tempting to let his mouth linger there a little longer, let his tongue whip up a storm that could have her breathless, buckled up on the bathroom floor in less than a minute —

“Please,” comes out of her in a breathy little moan. “ _Please_ , Jon.”

— but that just won’t do.

“Mm.” Gifts her one last, glancing kiss between her thighs — then pulls away. “Much as I like it when you beg, baby girl… you disobeyed me.” Lifts a hand to wipe the gloss of her from his beard, then lowers it to give her arse another warning squeeze. “Didn’t you?”

“But — ”

Tightens his grip. “ _Didn’t_ you?”

“Yes.” Can hear the creak of her heels as she scissors her toes inside them. “But — ”

“But what?”

“I told you I wanted more,” whimpers it. “I told you I _needed_ more.”

Drags his fingertips down toward the backs of her knees. “You made a choice.” Feather-light touch over the straps binding up her ankles. “To wait.” Crease of her thigh, cradle for his thumb; fingers making white spots show in the plump flesh above it as he presses down, down — _down_. “Till we were alone.”

“We’re alone now.”

Hears the shift of her hair. Looks up to find her with her chin on her shoulder, eyes so hazy-wide they’re almost black. Gazing at him heavy-lidded, tongue just peeking out between her teeth. He swallows. Thickly.

“Yes,” he says. “We are.”

“Then — ”

But it ebbs from her in a rush. Melodic little moan mixed-up with his name, bits of begging — _daddy, please, fuck, please_ — clashing with the fury in her eyes as he hooks her gaze on his own in the mirror, rears up from his knees to slot in behind her. Presses close. Body moulded to her back. Every inch of them touching. Every bump. Every bit.

Opens his mouth like he’s about to say something. Closes it to a smile as he watches her eyes leap to follow whatever shapes he might’ve said. Whatever sounds his tongue might’ve made. Tiniest roll of her hips as she sways a little on her sky-high heels, her knuckles bone-white where she’s clutching the edge of the counter.

He has his hands resting lightly on those rolling hips. Tracking each movement: every little dip and quake. Thumbs rasping gently over the day-old indents of her long-gone panties. It pulls a sound from her, that steady rasp of his thumbs against her skin. Belly-deep moan all broken-up. Most vulnerable she’s ever sounded. Most needy.

Perfect, perfect, _perfect_.

“Tell me what you want me to do to you.”

Relief at hearing his voice almost overwhelms her. He can see it. See the effect it has on her — _feel_ the effect, too. Thighs rubbing slick together, hips rocking, backside pulsing back hard into his suit-trousers. Lifts a hand from her hip, dips it between her legs whilst the other holds her steady.

Eyes locked in the mirror as he traces up over around all that he can still taste on his tongue. Holds his gaze for a moment, then her head rocks back onto his shoulder. He allows it. Lifts his hand from her hip to knot a grip in her hair whilst the other skates over her clit. Rolls it. Softly, softly — jags her head back further as he slides a finger inside her.

“Tell me.”

“That!” she whimpers. “I want you to keep doing _that_.”

Another finger. Hand tightening in her hair; lips ghosting the ridge of her jawline. So wet his gentle play sounds up, echoes off against the ceiling, fills the bathroom. She’s thrusting her arse back into him now — _hard_. Trying to mirror the pull and pulse of his fingers, trying to get him to move quicker, deeper, harder, faster.

Mm, that just won’t do.

“You should behave better,” murmurs it against her neck: low, deep, all the smoke from the streets outside husked-up in his throat. “I’d let you come if you behaved better, Sansa.”

Throat goes taut beneath his teeth. “Don’t want to come.”

“What do you want then, baby girl?”

Asks it like he doesn’t already know what she wants, what she’s about to say. Asks it in a way that makes her stop her desperate jarring, makes her melt into him, against him. Asks it all low and soft and smoky.

“ _Jon_.”

Her fingers skitter over the hand he’s got pinned between her legs, circle round his wrist. He keeps it still until she stops scrabbling — then rewards her with one slow crook. Little scissor inside her. Feels her pulse around him. Feels her fingers flutter on his wrist. Then he stills again, nips at the stretch of skin beneath her ear.

“Tell. Me.”

Nails digging into his wrist. “I want you inside me.”

“My fingers?” breathes it into her ear. “My cock?”

Memory of it makes her lift her head from his shoulder, flash a look at him in the mirror. He watches her. Brow raised: cool, casual — as if he’s not so desperate to be fucking into her that he can barely breathe.

Wishes it was his kitchen counter she was trapped against right now. Better still, his bed. Sight of her on her hands and knees — milk-white body against dark sheets — arse up for no-one but him to see. Take his time, then. Be a feast, not just a —

Blanched out of his reveries by her snaking a hand back between their bodies. Tangling at his belt, dipping down over the front of his suit-trousers. Hard and hot, but his cock strains — harder, hotter — at the slight brush of her fingertips through the fine-woven wool. Clenches his teeth, swallows back his groan.

“That what you want?” he grits out. “You want that inside you?”

“Yes.” Fire in her eyes leaping as he crooks his fingers inside her, regrips his fist in her hair. “Mm — _please_.”

Remembering her manners, at least. But he’s on the edge. Has been on the edge all fucking night since she rocked up to the company dinner in a modest dress that somehow still made her look scandalous to him. High neck-line. Knee-length skirt. But it’s tight. So fucking tight. Pebbled nipples pressing through it, imploring his mouth to land on them. All night. All _fucking_ night. 

“How badly?” he asks now, that hours-long burn making him a little more vicious. “Hmm?” Pulls his fingers out of her and up, up — _up_ till her clit is balanced beneath the print of one. “How _badly_ do you want it, Sansa?”

Grip on his wrist redoubling. “So badly.” Other hand still on his belt, fingers bent up beneath the leather. “So, _so_ badly.”

“Enough to beg for it?”

Beat of heavy-throated quiet, then — “Yes.”

“I like it when you beg, baby girl.”

Enough praise to launch her into pleading. But then he rolls his fingertip: deft, delicate — and she buckles at the waist like her clit’s drawing her down and in. “Jon, _please_ I — ”

“Keep going.”

Scrabbling at his belt now. “I — I can’t say it.”

“Thought you were a bad girl,” murmurs it against her cheek. “Bad, bad girl with bruises on her arm. Bites on her neck.” Turns into her, hand leaving her hair to curl round her jaw. “Not so bad anymore… that it?” Brings her lips close enough to his to kiss — or to bite. “My bad girl turning good again.” Nose brushing the tip of hers as he floats a breath over her open mouth. “Mm — that what you are?” Kisses her: soft, light. “Daddy’s good little girl?”

Moans into his mouth as he deepens the kiss. Lets her push him off her a little, just enough that she can turn in his arms. Because he knows what she wants. Knows what she’s about to ask, about to _do_ — of course he knows. Doesn’t show it, though. Licks his tongue across her own; draws back slow, sucking a little at her bottom lip.

“I’ll show it,” she whispers as their lips stick and pull apart. “Mm, I’ll show it better than I can say it.” Hands in his belt now, slotting in, bearing down. “Can I? Can I show you?” Gazes at him, so soft and open he could weep. “Can I — oh, _please_. Please, Jon. Please.”

Slips a thumb along her cheekbone, fingers cradling her jaw. “You may.”

“Thank you.”

Fuck, if that doesn’t set his head spinning mad as her scent did. Blinking black-blue down at her as she whispers it again — _mm, thank you_ — and sinks to her knees on the dark-tiled floor, blue-wide eyes turned up to fix on his own.

He keeps his hands slotted on the countertop behind him. Wonders distantly at how the tables have turned as he leans back against it. Doesn’t have too long to wonder it — belt’s gone, trousers are midway down his thighs. Fingers dipping into his boxers, thumb skating over the head of his cock and before he knows it he’s thrusting into her hand, her palm, anything, anything —

“Stay still.”

Looks down at her as she says it. Raises a brow; can’t quite bite back his smile, though. She’s smiling, too. Sees the lift of her lips before she opens them. Perfect o-shaped mouth painted the same shade as the soles of her sky-high heels. Dips forward on her knees. Pink tongue lapping up, wrapping round. Wide and flat. Mm. The perfect cradle.

Perfect, perfect, _perfect_.

Hand twisting softly, head bobbing. Slow as he slid his fingers, crooked them up inside her. Slow, soft, wet, warm. Looks down at her again. Those red lips slipping down over his cock, pulling back, slipping down. Tongue flicking up and over, tracing him. Every bump. Every bit. Lifts a hand from the counter, rubs a strand of ruby hair between his fingers.

“Look at you,” husks it, all low and deep. Hides a smile to feel the shiver it sets in her. “So beautiful.” Runs his fingers lightly over her cheek. “Mm, do you know how beautiful you look on your knees, baby girl?”

Rolls him on her tongue as if she’s about to —

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, Sansa.”

Narrows her eyes up at him. But he sees the smile peek up at the corners of her lips. Feels it, too. Stares locked as she slides him in deep. Holds still. Lets him lose every little bit of his breath — then draws back. Cock balancing between her lips. Tongue flicking up over it one last time before she pulls away. Twists her hand gently. Too skilled by half — but he’d be a liar if he said he was mad about how she learnt that skill right this second.

“Feel good?” she breathes. “Does that feel good, daddy?”

Wishes he’d spanked her earlier. Slapped out the cheek, the backchat. Made her collapse over the sink, arse stained sunset-pink. But there’ll be plenty of time for that. Tonight. Tomorrow. Next year. Next week. All the time in the world to perfect the shade of pinkish-red he wants to stain that peachy bit of skin.

“That’s not my name.” Has her up on her feet, turned back belly-down against the sink before she can blink. “Is it?”

Water rushing as she scrabbles for grip, accidently brushes the tap. “Jon — ”

“Clever girl,” he breathes against the nape of her neck. “Say it again.”

“ _Jon_.”

Bites down fleetingly. Just hard enough to dent. Never to bruise. Never to hurt. Would _never_ hurt her. She rolls her neck, moans. Juts her hips back into him. Hands reaching back to find his cock, fingers trailing flesh still wet from her mouth. Thighs parting for him.

“In my bag,” she’s saying. “In my _bag_ — ”

Seizes on what she means before she’s even finished saying it. It’s a rush, now. Everything so soft and slow and teasing building up to burn now. Burn fast. Burn quick. Burn up. Burn _down_. Fingers following where she’s pointing. Grabbing up the bag, tipping it out onto the marble counter beside the sink. Water rushing.

“Bringing condoms to a company dinner in your glitzy little clutch-bag?” pants it, licks a stripe up to her ear. “Bad girl.” Groans as she bats at him to rip one open, roll one on, fuck into her — please, please, _please_. “What would daddy think?”

“I don’t _care_ — ”

Floods from her. Runs away in a wisp of garbled words and curses as he lines up and pushes inside her in one slick, slow, stretching _drag_ that makes him forget his own name for a moment. Clamps around his cock immediately; but he pulls back. Presses in again. His brow furrowed, eyebrows swinging up as he wraps an arm round her shoulders, crushes her back against his chest.

“I’ll tell you what he thinks.” Somehow he’s talking. Low and deep and smoky and not half as choked as he feels. “Daddy thinks I’m wrangling a deal with a tricky client.”

“Mm… is that me?”

“It’s you, baby girl.”

Her fingers twine with the hand clutching tight to her shoulder. Drags it down till he’s at her breasts. Arches into his palm, moans low and long as he thumbs her nipple through the silky fabric. Pinches it to a point, rolls it between his fingers. Like he’s been desperate to do all night. All _fucking_ night.

“What am I — _fuck_ — what am I supposed to be buying?”

“Security,” he pants. “For an upcoming event.”

“Big strong men to protect me?”

Jacks his hips — _hard_. “You’d like that, would you?”

“Mm-mm.” Bitten lips, shaking her head as she smashes forward from the force of his thrust. “Just one.” Thumbing at her own nipples now as he slashes his hand down to her clit, rolls it once: quick, firm. “Just — _fuck_.”

“What was that?” he breathes into her neck. “Just…?”

“ _One_ ,” she whines. “Just one.” Rips away from him to bow down on her elbows. Arse swung up into the air, thighs sliding wider still as her heels skitter across the slate tiles. “Just yo— oh, oh!” 

Hand between her shoulder-blades. “Shh-shh-shh.” Drifting up to wrap a fistful of her hair into his fingers now. “Mm, they’ll hear you out there.” Wrenches her up so she’s staring at him in the mirror: all ragged panting want and wine-flushed cheeks. “That what you want? Keep moaning nice and loud so daddy can hear you?”

“Would he like that?”

Swarms her, covers her in his shadow. “He likes it better when you say his name.”

“Jon,” she whimpers. “Mm, _Jon_.”

Little thread of frenzy in her voice now. Seeks to soothe it immediately. Been a good girl, this forbidden fire-haired temptress of his. Put up with his teasing. Sucked his cock in a way that he’s already hungry to experience again. _Taking_ his cock, too. Taking it better than he ever dreamed she would. If the taste of her set his head spinning, the feel of her iron-hard fluttering down around him is enough to make him lose his head altogether.

Mm, that just won’t do.

Her first.

Always.

“Shh-shh-shh.” Hums it to her, rumble of his chest pressed down over her back. “It’s okay.” Hooks a hand onto her jaw, turns her so she can search out his lips as she whimpers. “Mm, it’s okay… I’ve got you, baby girl.” Kisses her, fingers working steady on her clit. “You ready, hmm?” Strokes her clit, her jaw — soft, soft. “Are you ready for me to give you what you need, Sansa?”

Pulsing round him now: so hot and wet and willing it’s turning his spine into a line of fire, echo of its heat singeing straight to his cock. Her thighs are taut. Can feel the tension in the bone-notches of her back. Every inch of her waiting for him to let her come. Every bump. Every bit.

She’s close.

So, so close.

“Yes,” she breathes now. “Please — _please_ , Jon.”

Blue-wide eyes slipping closed as his hand creeps from her jaw to her throat. Cups it loosely in his palm, thumb tilting up beneath her chin. Nudges her knees further apart with one of his as he gives one hard, swift thrust — then slows up. Fingers v-shaped gripping her cunt gently as his cock slides inside achingly slow, as his thumb trips back up over her clit. Plush and pulsing and perfect.

Perfect, perfect, _perfect_.

“Ready?”

She rocks into his mouth, his hands, his cock. “Ready.”

“You sure?”

Eyes cracking open with a fury that makes him groan. “ _Jon_.”

“Go on then, baby.”

But she’s primed as much as she’s plush and pulsing — and _everything_ about that is fucking perfect. The way she’s waiting. Muscles taut and stone-ripples of hunger burning between them; but she’s waiting for it. That one word. That one little word.

That one little word that she can taste on his tongue as he kisses her: hard where his hips are soft and ebbing, fast where his cock is dragging inside her slow and deep, rough where his hands are gentle in their careful playing of her body.

That one little _fucking_ word that she’ll beat from him if he doesn’t fucking say it soon. Can see the fury in her eyes, feel the fire of it burning up in his own blood. The promise of it — the _threat_.

“Shh-shh-shh.”

Moans something muffled into his mouth now — _bastard_ — and he’s smiling. Swallowing her own smile even as she hisses at him hushing her. Can feel her body screaming — _say it, say it, say it_ — the tremble starting round his cock, the half-flutter half-clench as she bites her lip and gazes up at the dim-lit ceiling, fingers curled to fists.

Watches her willing herself not to come. Mirror reflecting back what he’d never dared hoped to see: his hand on her throat, her brow angled into his jaw. Dress round her waist, thighs parted wide. Fire-prickles in her cheeks, spilling down her throat. But no marks. Not a single bruise. Handling. Hurting. There’s a difference.

“Come.”

Takes her by surprise. Slips it low and soft into her ear. That one little word that sees her resolve crumble. Burn down. Become ashes.

Lets out a cry he’s not quite quick enough to catch.

Maybe he didn’t want to catch it. Maybe he wants them all to hear her. Everyone at that fucking table. Waiters. Attendants. Doormen. Thousand commuters in the streets outside. Stupid little boys who left bruises on her arms. Bites on her neck. Let them all fucking hear her —

“Jon! _Jon_ — fuck, Jon.”

— let them all know who she fucking belongs to.

Surprises him even though it shouldn’t — that possessive, feral streak painting fury through his veins. Fucking wolf hulked over his mate, that’s how he feels for a split second before he comes — _hard_.

Wants to find those boys who she asked to hurt her. Now. Wants to paint the walls fucking red with their blood. Fucking _now_. Come back to her with bloody knuckles, bust-up lip, drop to his knees and fucking worship her.

“Baby,” he utters in a strange, soft, moany little voice he’s never used before. “My baby girl.” Sags down onto her with a strangled whimper as she comes again: deep, red-warm pulse cloaking his cock in fire. “No more boys.” Somehow finds her mouth, kisses her; teeth nipping at her bottom lip. “Just me… just _me_ , Sansa. Please.”

“Only you,” she breathes. “Always you.” 

Feels it calm, then: that fury. Feels it fall away. Fade. Eyes meet in the mirror as he shuts off the tap. Holds her gaze for a heartbeat, then dips his face to her throat.

Breathes in the scent of her skin: vanilla, shea butter, little tang of lemon-zest — his aftershave now, too. All mixed-up, blended in. Him. Her. _Them_. Exactly how it should be.

Perfect, perfect —

Fucking _perfect_.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> Been struggling with ye ole smut-writing at the moment. Been struggling with writing full-stop — the mind wonders and wanders and winds up wondering what words even are let alone knowing how to wrangle them from pondering to pen to paper. _SO_ I am sorry if that did not meet or exceed expectations! But our babies are happy and that’s all that matters, eh? Marking this as complete at the three-chapter mark but a fourth final chapter _may_ appear at some point for the aftermath so stick around if you might fancy that. Okay! Bye now, honeys — hope everyone is keeping well and being kind. ❤️  
>  **p.s.** YES a BONUS picset aka the other half to my [tumblr](https://charmtion.tumblr.com/post/611791299604037632/fury-a-filthy-new-fic-massive-mess-of-moans) one that didn't fit on the last chapter's end-notes... U so welcome!  
>  **p.p.s** why is it so massive??? ... the picset you perverts! the picset!


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